Night had long settled over Dorne by the time the carriage crossed the gates of Sunspear.
The desert heat still clung stubbornly to the stone roads, trapped within the pale walls even after sunset. The horses moved at an easy pace through the palace paths, their hooves echoing softly beneath hanging lanterns that burned with amber light. Water trickled somewhere beyond the courtyards, steady and familiar, blending with the distant murmur of servants changing shifts for the night.
Sunspear always moved this way after dark.
Unhurried.
The rest of Westeros chased noise and grandeur, but Dorne preferred rhythm. The slow pulse of fountains beneath moonlight. Silk curtains stirring in warm wind. Quiet conversations drifting from shaded balconies while wine cooled in bronze cups.
Inside the carriage, Princess Dareya Martell sat across from her younger sister.
Meyra had spent most of the journey leaning against the window, watching the lights of Sunspear grow nearer. Her excitement had faded during the final stretch of travel, replaced by exhaustion and stubborn silence. The younger princess hugged a cushion to her chest, though every so often her eyes wandered toward Dareya, as if checking whether her older sister remained calm.
Dareya did.
At least outwardly.
She sat straight despite the long road, one hand resting against the carved wood beside her. Her thoughts were no longer on the mountains they had crossed or the ambush they had survived. They were already ahead of her—inside the Tower of the Sun, where her father waited.
The carriage passed through an open courtyard lined with date palms and shallow pools. Servants stepped aside without pause, bowing their heads as the Martell sigil rolled by. Somewhere above, musicians played faintly from a distant terrace.
The Tower of the Sun soon rose into view.
It dominated Sunspear without needing to announce itself. Unlike the towering keeps of the Reach or the storm-lashed castles of the eastern coast, the Tower of the Sun carried no arrogance in its height. It stood like an old truth—unchanging and immovable, the heart around which Dorne breathed.
Several windows still glowed with candlelight.
The carriage slowed.
Then stopped.
For a brief moment, the world seemed still. Only the desert wind moved, warm against the curtains of the carriage.
A household guard stepped forward immediately and opened the door.
"Princesses."
Dareya stepped down first, the hem of her orange robes brushing the stone. Meyra followed behind her with far less grace, nearly stumbling in her haste before catching herself.
The younger girl looked around eagerly. "Is Mother awake?"
Dareya ignored the question and turned toward the palace servants waiting nearby.
"Where are Prince Father and Princess Mother?"
The head servant lowered his head respectfully. "The Prince and Princess are presently receiving guests in the western hall, Second Princess."
Dareya gave a small nod.
"Prepare a bath for Princess Meyra," she said calmly. "And fresh clothes. I will attend the hall myself."
Meyra immediately frowned. "I want to see Mother too."
Dareya finally looked at her younger sister.
One look was enough.
The protest died before it could fully form.
"You may see Mother after you bathe," Dareya said. "You smell like roasted lamb and carriage dust."
Meyra sniffed at her sleeve.
Her expression shifted reluctantly into defeat.
"That bad?"
"A tragedy," Dareya replied.
One of the older servants covered a smile behind her hand while guiding the younger princess away. Meyra grumbled under her breath the entire time, though she did not resist.
Dareya watched until they disappeared down the corridor before turning toward the Tower of the Sun.
The halls of Sunspear welcomed night differently than day. During daylight, servants, messengers, guards, and merchants filled every passage with movement. But after sunset, the palace settled into something quieter. Softer.
Oil lamps burned low along sandstone walls painted with fading Rhoynish patterns. Open archways allowed warm air to drift through the corridors, carrying the scent of citrus trees and spice from the inner gardens.
As Dareya approached the western hall, the guards outside immediately straightened.
"One moment, Princess."
The doors opened.
One of the guards struck the butt of his spear against the floor.
"Princess Dareya Martell, heir to Sunspear, returned safely from her journey."
Conversation within the hall quieted at once.
Dareya entered beneath the gaze of gathered lords, knights, advisors, and sworn allies of House Martell. Wine cups rested upon long tables of polished cedar. Maps lay open near the Prince's seat, weighed down with carved stone markers.
The discussions had clearly not been light ones.
At the center of it all sat Prince Nolan Martell.
Relief crossed his face the instant he saw her.
Not hidden relief, either. It was real. The kind only a father failed to conceal.
Beside him sat Princess Maris, whose expression shifted not into relief—but alarm.
Because Dareya had entered alone.
Dareya stopped several steps before the table and bowed her head properly.
"My Prince Father," she said evenly, "your daughter, Princess Dareya Martell, returns safely from her journey alongside Princess Meyra."
Princess Maris stood almost immediately.
"You frightened me," she said, already descending from the raised platform. "For a moment I thought—"
"Meyra was taken to bathe," Dareya interrupted gently. "The girl smells worse than a sellsword camp."
That earned several quiet laughs around the table.
As her mother reached her, Dareya glanced briefly around the hall.
Her gaze paused.
Qoren was missing.
Thaddeus had mentioned Qoren during the journey—perhaps from rumor or hearsay—and she had expected to see him among those gathered in the hall.
"Where is Qoren?" she asked.
Prince Nolan answered first.
"Your brother rode north several days ago. A dispute near the northwestern passes. He wished to see the matter himself."
Dareya nodded slowly.
That sounded like Qoren.
Always restless. Always preferring saddle and steel over court.
Princess Maris rested a hand briefly against Dareya's cheek, reassuring herself that her daughter truly stood before her unharmed.
"That child would eat through a famine," her mother muttered, speaking of Princess Meyra.
"She attempted to do exactly that during the journey," Dareya replied.
Prince Nolan gestured toward an empty seat nearby.
"Sit with us," he said. "We are nearly finished."
Princess Dareya obeyed, though her eyes drifted toward the maps upon the table.
The northwestern passes.
Several markers had been moved recently.
Raids along the marches had worsened during recent moons. Caravans disappearing. Border villages reporting missing livestock. Riders crossing farther into Dornish lands than they dared before.
Not war. Not yet. But Dorne had long memories when it came to the Reach.
The conversation resumed briefly, though Dareya noticed several eyes lingering upon her. Word of her delayed return had clearly reached Sunspear before she had.
When the final matter concerning the marches was settled and the gathered lords began easing into quieter discussion, Dareya finally spoke.
"My Prince Father," she said calmly, "this daughter of yours finds herself indebted."
Silence settled over the room again.
Prince Nolan leaned back slightly. "Indebted?"
"Yes."
Her tone remained composed, though every eye in the hall now rested upon her.
"A fortnight ago," Dareya continued, "our party was attacked while returning from the port of Vaithmar. The ambush came as we crossed the mountain roads beyond the western passes."
The silence sharpened instantly.
"One bandit came within a breath of taking my head."
Princess Maris went pale.
Several men at the table straightened in disbelief.
Dareya continued before anyone could interrupt.
"We would likely not have survived had someone not intervened."
"And who was this someone?" Nolan asked quietly.
"A young nobleman," Dareya said. "A wizard."
Murmurs spread across the hall at once.
Even in Dorne, where old Rhoynish stories still survived in whispers and songs, the word carried weight.
Wizard.
The maester near the far end of the table frowned immediately.
Dareya ignored him.
"He fought the mountain bandits alone," she continued. "And afterward, he healed the wounded among our company, including the guards."
In truth, fought was a generous word for what had happened on that mountain highway. Thaddeus had barely moved before the bandits became frozen figures under the harsh mountain sun.
But Dareya had chosen her words carefully.
Now the murmurs turned into outright disbelief.
Princess Maris gripped the edge of the table tightly.
"You were wounded?"
"Not gravely."
"You said a blade nearly reached your neck."
"It nearly did."
Her mother closed her eyes briefly, shaken.
The fear in her mother's eyes was understandable.
House Martell had already buried one daughter not many years before. The first princess had died on her journey home after attending the Great Council, and the grief of it still lingered within Sunspear like an old wound that refused to close.
Prince Nolan's face hardened.
"Bring forward the guards who traveled with the princesses."
The household guards obeyed immediately.
One by one, they recounted the ambush in greater detail. The attack in the mountains. The strange magic they witnessed. The impossible healing. Even the older captain—normally difficult to impress—spoke with visible unease while describing it.
"It was no mummer's trick, my Prince," the captain said firmly. "I saw wounds close with my own eyes."
Another guard nodded quickly. "The young man carried himself like nobility as well. Not some hedge sorcerer."
Prince Nolan listened without interruption.
Only after the final guard finished speaking did he look back toward Dareya.
"This wizard," he said. "What is his name?"
"Thaddeus Peverell."
Several brows furrowed.
The name sounded foreign even by Dornish standards.
"He claims descent from House Peverell," Dareya continued. "A house said to dwell in the shadowed lands near Asshai."
That earned an even heavier silence.
Asshai.
The shadowed lands carried enough dark tales to unsettle even hardened men.
The maester finally spoke.
"My Prince," he began carefully, "with respect, stories from Asshai are often exaggerated. Magic, shadowbinders, miracle healers—"
"I know what I saw," Dareya interrupted calmly.
The maester inclined his head politely but did not retreat.
"And I do not question the princess's sincerity. But powerful wizard rarely intervene in the affairs of strangers without purpose."
"A purpose?" Princess Maris snapped softly. "The wizard-noble saved my daughters."
"And that alone may be true," the maester replied. "Yet caution remains wise."
Dareya watched the exchange silently.
Prince Nolan remained thoughtful for several moments.
Then he asked, "Where is he now?"
"In the Shadow City," Dareya answered. "I invited him to Sunspear, but he declined. He said he preferred settling among the city first."
"That alone speaks well of him," one older Dornish lord muttered. "Most foreign nobles would beg for palace hospitality before sunset."
Several others nodded in agreement.
Dorne respected pride—so long as it was carried with restraint.
Dareya lowered her gaze briefly before speaking again.
"My Prince Father," Dareya said, steady despite the weight of every gaze in the hall, "I understand what the maester fears. Yet I cannot ignore what Thaddeus did for us. I owe him my life. So does Meyra."
She paused just long enough for the words to settle.
Then she added, quieter—but sharper. "He saved the heir of House Martell."
Prince Nolan studied his daughter carefully.
Then, slowly, he smiled.
"No daughter of mine should struggle alone with matters of debt."
A few soft chuckles spread through the hall.
"If the man saved the heir of House Martell," Nolan continued, "then he deserves proper thanks."
His expression sharpened slightly afterward.
"And if he carries hidden motives, I will judge them myself."
The Prince rose from his seat.
"Tomorrow morning, you will bring him before me."
Dareya inclined her head.
"As you command, Prince Father."
The tension in the hall eased somewhat after that, though the whispers did not stop.
Some were curious.
Others suspicious.
And some looked genuinely unsettled by the mention of magic within Dorne.
Princess Maris moved beside Dareya once more, resting a hand lightly upon her shoulder.
"You should rest tonight," she said quietly.
"I will."
Eventually, Dareya excused herself and departed the hall.
The doors closed behind her.
Inside, conversation resumed almost immediately.
Some of the gathered lords spoke in uneasy tones, trying to reconcile what they had heard—a foreign noble who could still wounds or end men without blade or fire. Others called it trickery, despite the household guards' testimony.
A few spoke of old Rhoynish songs of sorcery in the far east, but most dismissed it as superstition or misinterpretation.
Yet none could agree on what the man truly was.
But the maester remained troubled.
"My Prince," he said carefully once the princess was gone, "forgive my persistence, but men from Asshai are rarely simple travelers."
Prince Nolan poured himself more wine before answering.
"Neither are Dornishmen."
A few smiles appeared at that.
The maester sighed quietly. "Even so, I advise caution."
"And caution shall be taken," Nolan replied. "But a man who saves my daughter will not be treated like an enemy before proving himself one."
Princess Maris spoke before the maester could continue.
"He protected them when our own guards could not."
The words carried no anger.
Which somehow made them sharper.
The captain of the household guard lowered his head slightly at the rebuke.
Nolan's fingers tapped once against the armrest of his chair.
"Tomorrow," he said at last, "I will see this wizard-noble with my own eyes."
Outside the Tower of the Sun, the night winds continued drifting across Sunspear.
Far below the palace walls, the Shadow City remained awake beneath lanternlight and drifting smoke.
And somewhere within its maze of narrow streets, a young man stood at the center of Dorne's attention, unaware that a fabricated mention—lands near Asshai—had already begun to gain weight among those who had heard it.
TBC
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